Captured
by Elfprinzess
Summary: It was for a case. It was always for a bloody case. It was because of a case that not only did they fail to get the bad guys, and not only did they get caught by said bad guys, but Lestrade and Donovan were also caught along with Sherlock and John. (*Little bit of nongraphic beatings and a few swear words*)


**Here's a oneshot that I got into my head and finally got down in words. Please enjoy and review to let me know your thoughts.**

**Also, the rating is T, but just as a heads up, John gets a bit beaten up, nothing graphic, and he also swears quite a bit, but that's it that you need to be aware of.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It was for a case. It was always for a bloody case. It was because of a case that not only did they fail to get the bad guys, and not only did they get caught by said bad guys, but Lestrade and Donovan were also caught along with Sherlock and John.

It had started with a private case, of forgery, stolen identities, people on the run. A man was murdered for denying a certain gang their money. Simple, but Sherlock had taken it for the chase of infiltrating the gang and flushing them out. They had nearly cornered the group of six leaders, when it turned out the police were also going to flush them out, and the someone on the police gave the game up, causing the gang to turn and fight back. That was all John remembered, before everything went black. Until he had woken up in a cell, along with Donovan, Lestrade and Sherlock.

The fact his hands weren't tied was worrying, that meant the people were confident they couldn't break out. It may or may not be true, but until he knew, he had to act as if these people were serious danger to everyone.

John climbed up onto his knees and swore under his breath as the world spun. He felt the back of his head and winced at the throbbing, tender cut on his scalp, and pulled his hand back to find them devoid of fresh blood. So the wound had stopped bleeding but he had a concussion. Great. He crawled over to the nearest body, Lestrade and searched him for injuries without moving the man from his stomach. Finding none, save a bump on the back of his head, John rolled him over into recovery position and moved to the next body. Sherlock had a cut on his thigh that wasn't deep enough to worry about, and only a bump, like Lestrade. Donovan had a bruised jaw and a bump, but otherwise they were all relatively fine. Unless they all had concussions. Which was possible, but hopefully not true.

He struggled up onto his feet, and clung to the wall, walking the distance. They were in a room, about 3 by 3 meters square, made of concrete, with only the door. No windows and no bars. There were no holes or cracks, but John didn't have a chance to test for drafts before he grew too dizzy to continue, and had to sit down near Sherlock, against the wall.

A few minutes later, Lestrade groaned and sat up, hands coming up to rub his head. "Bloody hell my head hurts."

John crawled back over, "Follow my finger." He stuck up his finger and moved it side to side, watching as Lestrade had no issue focusing on the doctor's digit and following its movements. "You are fine, no concussion." John announced, before sitting back down, against the wall. "I remember being caught out, and fighting, but they must've hit me from behind, cause I don't remember much else."

"They took you out, and then Sherlock. I was next, so obviously Sally got hit as well, but I saw several officers get out so hopefully they'll come after us soon. Are they OK?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the unconscious two as he got up onto his feet.

"Sherlock had a knife wound to his thigh, but it is shallow, nothing too serious, as long as it doesn't get infected or made bigger. Both have bumps, like your own, and Sally has a bruised jaw, but nothing is broken. They may have concussions, we'll find out when they wake up, but if so, it will only be minor ones." John reported. "From what I can tell, the room is sealed shut, except for the door, but I am fairly certain we have fresh air. I didn't get a chance to see where from though, or if it was just from the door. And we're being watched." John nodded up to the four corners, where a camera sat, red light blinking at them every few seconds.

"And yourself?" Lestrade asked.

"Head wound, definitely a concussion. Don't let me sleep for more than an hour at a time, wake me up if so, and get me to recite something, personal information or celebrity gossip that I know or something." John rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Massive headache though, seriously, this stupid pounding is worse than Sherlock when he is bored."

"Thank you for that comparison." Sherlock muttered, before sitting up and glancing around. If he had a concussion, he hid it well. Or he didn't have one. Within seconds, Sherlock was up and prowling about, studying each wall and corner and crack. "They are either extremely overconfident or very capable, when it comes to holding prisoners and preventing them from escaping, and logic points towards the latter." Sherlock said.

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked.

"We're not tied up. That means they are confident in their ability to keep us here, locked up. Either because they are stupid and overconfident, or they are actually extremely good." John explained, as Donovan groaned and John moved to check her for a concussion. By the time they had explained things to Sally, banging from outside the door announced the entrance of the bad guys who turned out to be 12 beefy muscle guys. They gripped each person, two per prisoner, and two extra at the front and back, and escorted them out and through a bunch of corridors, to a large, empty room made of concrete. They were still no windows.

"Now, we were expecting the police to show up and try and nab us," the leader, Timothy Shelios, otherwise known as Bossman, drawled, sitting in a chair as the four prisoners were forced to kneel in front of him. "But Sherlock Holmes as well, that was a surprise, and I feel flattered, almost." he grinned at them.

Sherlock opened his mouth, "You are the leader of this gang, but only because your older brother refused the position, and your father, who was in charge previously had no choice but to use you as his successor. So your father has always seemed disappointed in you, no matter what you do, so you often try to please him, often aiming higher than possible, making that disappointment even worse. You also try to be the stereotype gang leader, the nicknames, hideouts. This one, after all is underground, even though that is rather cliche."

The smile dripped off the man's face and he nodded at the guards. They forced John up and carried him closer to the boss, turning him round to face the other three, pushing him back down onto his knees. Just before they forced him down, he lunged out of their grasp and tackled one of them to the ground, throwing a few punches, getting the man solidly in the nose and managing to fight for a few seconds until the other guards pulled John off the man. They shoved him hard onto his knees, and he knelt there, seething in anger as he faced Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan who were all being held at gunpoint now. The guards tightened their grip on his arms, twisting them up behind his back, and pulling, causing him to gasp in pain as it pulled at his old gun shot injury.

"What evidence do you have on me?" Bossman demanded, his face and tone cold and heartless.

No one answered.

One of the guards bent over and punched John in the stomach, several times, hard. Donovan let a small sob slip out before recovering her control. Lestrade didn't speak, but began glaring at the bad guys. Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from John, staring with shock, anger and worry evident in his face to those who knew him. To those who didn't, he looked pissed off. Murderous, even. John yelped a few swear words in pain, but managed to right himself once the guard stepped back, ignoring the throbbing pain in his stomach and head. He made eye contact with Sherlock and shook his head slowly.

"I'll ask again. What evidence do you have on me?" Bossman asked again.

Upon receiving no reply, the guard punched John again, several times, until the boss ordered him to stop. John took a lot longer to get back up, and couldn't hide the wince as he moved.

"I'm going to keep asking until I get an answer."

The answer didn't come. The guards resumed their beating.

* * *

An hour later they were thrown back into their cell, and John immediately coughed and groaned, not even moving from his stomach, how they had thrown him in.

"Shit John," Lestrade managed to force out, moving to the man, but Sherlock beat him there.

"What can I do to help?" Sherlock demanded.

"Help me to sit upright against the wall." John gasped. Lestrade helped Sherlock roll him over, as the ex-army doctor bit back several loud swear words and they propped him on the wall. His left shoulder was sitting at a funny angle.

"Know how to put a dislocated shoulder back in?" John asked, pain making his voice tight and his breath fast and labored.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring at his injured doctor. Lestrade stepped in. "I have before."

After a lot of rearranging and gasped expletives from John, John was braced against Sherlock, while Lestrade was ready to pop the shoulder back in. "Ready?" Lestrade asked. The DI didn't give him a chance to respond, just shoved upwards and forwards, causing John to jerk forward, held in place by Sherlock and he buried his face in Sherlock's coat, biting on the thick material to smother his shouts and swearing.

"Fucking hell, fuck me over and fuck the shit out of my fucking life." John groaned, letting. His head to roll backwards as the men let go of him. He stopped Sherlock from moving away, and managed to gasp, "Wait, can you tell the difference between a broken rib and normal rib?"

Sherlock nodded and lifted John's jumper and top to rest under his armpits, and prodded his ribs, feeling around, ignoring the gasps of pain and low swear words the doctor let slip a few times. "None of them are broken." Sherlock finally announced.

"Must be fractured. And bruised, obviously." John declared, gasping for breath. His entire upper body ached, throbbed and twinged with pain as he breathed or moved. His shoulder, the dislocated one was throbbing, and his other one, the one that had been shot in the war was aching in the freezing cold, concrete cell. Sherlock's fingers trailed over the scar tissue briefly, and John couldn't help but jerk away, the light touch causing the sensitive skin to go from aching to grow into throbbing, along with the rest of his body as he jerked and moved.

"Sorry." Sherlock muttered.

John shook his head, "Doesn't matter."

Donovan managed to overcome her shock at seeing the man she had presumed as harmless and average take an hour long beating barely blinking. Obviously he was in pain, and had reacted, swearing, gasping and yelling, but he hadn't broken down and cried, hadn't given them the information they wanted and hadn't cracked under the pain. The always dressed in woolen jumpers and always smelling of tea man, the safe, boring, normal doctor, took a beating that she herself could barely handle watching, let alone experience.

"We need to disable the cameras." Sherlock mumbled, before gesturing to Donovan, who for once did what was asked of her by Sherlock without arguing. She got to her feet and silently fitted a foot into the man's cupped hands and let him lift her up to reach the cameras. She pulled it from the wall and disabled it by dropping it, and squishing it with her heel. They did so with the rest quickly.

"That was helpful, except they are just going to come back in and fix them, or ignore it. We are still sticking here." Lestrade pointed out.

"No we aren't." John gasped, as he painfully lifted the recently dislocated arm. In his hand was a key. That matched the door. "Swiped it when I tackled the man, the idiot didn't realize, and someone else locked us in."

Sherlock grinned and took it, putting it into the keyhole and waiting as Lestrade and Donovan lifted John onto his feet, Sally remained helping him walk, while Lestrade moved to help Sherlock take out the guards. They pulled the door open and immediately jumped the two guards, taking them out quickly. Sherlock took one gun and passed it to John, who gripped it in his free hand, the other wrapped around Donovan's shoulders. Sherlock gave the other to Lestrade.

They made it all the way to the elevators before the alarms went off.

"I thought that was too easy." John gasped, as they used the key to open the doors, and pressed the top floor, just as guards came rushing from the corridors. The doors shut, and they went off to their destination.

"Get off before ground, or after, since that is an option, and we'll get the stairs out. They'll expect us at ground." Lestrade told Sherlock.

Sherlock pressed the button for the third floor, and they waited impatiently. The moment the doors opened the group rushed out to the stairs. They didn't stop to point out the fact that it was the middle of the night or that they were in a public, office building that was obviously empty, because of the time. They rushed to the stairs and Sherlock ducked under John's other arm, helping Sally to half carry, half support the rapidly fading man. His breath was a lot faster now, and shallower, and his face was pale. His head had began bleeding again a while ago, and hadn't stopped yet. They awkwardly hobbled down, with Lestrade leading to a fire exit, and they burst into the night air, in an alley that was thankfully abandoned. They didn't waste time in running away from the building, and gang members, and into a cafe that was down the road, scaring the owners and late night customers of the 24 hour diner.

"I'm police, Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade explained, as Sherlock and Sally supported John, who was close to fainting from pain, only focused on putting one foot in front of the other. "I need your phone and to hide in your office out back, hidden from view. Please?"

The man nodded, and led them into the back room, giving his mobile and landline up willingly, not because he believed Lestrade, but because he had recognized Sherlock Holmes, despite his normally cool gaze being frantic with panic, and his blogger, John Watson, despite looking half dead.

Within seconds the police had the building down the block surrounded, gang members arrested and all four were on their way to the hospital in two ambulances. John was stretched out on a stretcher, and the paramedics were trying to keep him awake, which they were succeeding purely because they had asked Sherlock to report everyone's injuries and John had interrupted.

"Greg only ... bump ... no concussion ... no problem ... with memory ... and focus." John gasped and mumbled, struggling to breath and talk. The paramedics were only letting him talk because it was safer to keep him awake by letting him talk then to let him fall unconscious. "Sherlock ... Bump, but ... no signs of concussion ... didn't check properly ... seemed fine ... And I ... was struggling ... to see ... also has cut ... on thigh ... didn't look like ... stitches, but ... was before ... ran about ... escaping ... n' fighting ... at least needs clean ... Sally had bump ... no concussion ... bruised not ... broken jaw." his words were disjointed and mumbled as he struggled to breathe deep enough to have enough air to talk. "Me, have concussion ... dislocated and ... fixed arm ... fractured ribs ... at least ... bruises."

"Thank you, Dr Watson, for the report, now relax and let us do our jobs." The paramedics said, as they arrived and went to get him out of the ambulance.

Sherlock who had been riding in the ambulance with John was taken away to get his leg looked at. Before he left, he gripped John's hand and stared intently at the man, who grinned back reassuringly (if somewhat weakly) before they were separated.

* * *

John had two broken ribs, four fractures and an alarmingly large amount of bruises. The broken ribs had damaged his internal organs, but luckily not his lungs or heart, and it wasn't permanent or any serious damage, given the possible injuries that could have happened. He had his chest strapped, as the bones healed and his dislocated arm was to be kept in a sling. He couldn't move very fast, and was out of breath after walking a few meters, but time would heal his wounds and he was sent home. His entire body ached continuously, especially both his shoulders, and the pain medication made him drowsy and put him to sleep, so he avoided taking it, despite the pain he experienced.

He was stretched out on the couch, as Sherlock had helped him up the steps to 221B, but the first flight was too much, and John didn't want to think about the second flight to his bedroom, so had been on the couch since he had come home three weeks ago, moving about during the day as much as possible, but had been sleeping on the couch. Sherlock was in the armchair, staring at the tv, at the crappy tv John had put on.

"John," Sherlock began, causing John to turn the volume down on the show he wasn't really watching properly.

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Your scar," Sherlock began to explain.

"You want to look, don't you?" John interrupted. "I don't mind you looking, just, if you have to poke and prod, do it gently, it's still tender from the beating, and you'll have to get my top up, I'm not sitting up just yet."

"I'll be gentle." Sherlock promised, moving to kneel at the couch. He carefully undid his top and pulled it off his scarred shoulder. John sat quietly as Sherlock's fingers ghosted over the scar tissue, the raised, red skin, rough to touch. He traced the webbing and the star-shape of the scar, and his fingers reached behind John's shoulder.

"No exit wound, it entered my shoulder and hit my collarbone." John explained.

"I didn't realise they let idiots into the army but whoever took it out made a mess." Sherlock muttered.

John snorted once.

Sherlock frowned then realised what was wrong, "You dug it out yourself?"

"I passed out upon getting shot but woke up five minutes later, or so Murray tells me, it felt like an age. I dug it out until Murray could get to me through the bullets and he wrapped it and carried me under shelter. We lost the other kid with us." John explained.

"You were treating him?"

"He had been shot in the thigh and it had shattered his thigh bone." John explained.

With that, Sherlock finally understood the pyschosymatic limp and why the man had developed it.

"Fascinating." Sherlock concluded, fingers gentle as he replaced John's top and stood. He turned around and headed into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"You seriously offering?" John asked.

"You aren't in any state to make it otherwise. I waited to see if you could and would, but you've yet to do so." Sherlock explained.

"Yes please." John replied.

There was some clinking as Sherlock got mugs out.

"Use the new kettle." John called out.

Sherlock was suspiciously quiet for a moment, then said, "It would be, ah, unwise to do so."

"Why?" John asked warningly. "Wait. I don't want to know, do I?"

"I'll use Mrs Hudson's kettle." Sherlock said in way of an answer and left for downstairs in his usual flourish of movement.

John laughed.

**The End**


End file.
